


Little Favors

by Eunoia2140



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Fluff, Gen, Loki Needs a Hug, Loki feels guilty (again), Sif makes some discoveries, he gets one by the person he was least expecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1498615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eunoia2140/pseuds/Eunoia2140
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sif finds Loki - exhausted and broken - after his supposed death on Svartalfheim, she tries to fix him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was hot outside. That was the only way to explain the day. The air in Asgard was usually warm as if it was summer every day. It usually smelled of flowers or crops that were ready to be harvested. On the occasion, the air was filled with the smell of metal and rang with the cries of victorious warriors who were sparring on the training grounds. But today the air was thick like honey and had a sickly sweet smell to it as if the fruit growing on the trees had suddenly become overripe. The sun drifted down towards the horizon as the day drew idly to a close. An uncomfortably warm and sluggish breeze blew through the air, causing dark green leaves to stir lazily upon the ground. It was just _so_ hot.

Sif had been the only person brave enough to go outside.

 _(But it’s so hot out, Thor, Volstagg, and Fandral had complained_.)

The gardens had always been a favorite place of hers to go, especially when the first frost of winter rolled in. The flowers looked particularly beautiful when each of their multicolored petals had a thin coating of ice on their edges. But it was only on the hot days did Sif think that the flowers smelled their best. Only on the sticky, humid days did the flowers seem to emanate their sweetest smells, filling the garden with their array of heavy scents.

 _(You are all just lazy, Sif had replied_. _I’ll be out in the garden if any of you change your minds.)_

So now as Sif sat on a bench hidden neatly behind some rosebushes, she relished in the silence and sweet smells that occupied the garden. She was slightly hunched over a piece of parchment that was lying next to her, and she slowly, slowly sketched a person onto the page with a piece of charcoal. The small black lump that was held in between her fingertips had dusted her skin with black powder, and she was careful not to let them graze the piece of thick parchment for fear that it would smear her drawing.

She was so enveloped in her work that she did not even notice the shadow that had suddenly fallen over her. It grew and grew and grew until barely any light shown onto her drawing. Sif looked up, expecting to see Thor but was met by the sight of a very curious Loki. His eyebrow was arched and he was subtly nibbling on his lower lip. That was a habit Sif had come to notice about Loki. Whenever he was curious about something, he would always bite his mouth: his lips, the inside of his cheeks. It was as if his silvertongue was dying to ask a question but thought better of it.

Her hand immediately swiped the piece of parchment behind her back, and she stood abruptly. Discreetness is not in your list of virtues, Sif thought to herself and let out a small sigh.

“And what exactly are you doing out in the garden on such a day as this, Sif?” Loki inquired, his conversational tone laced with a mix of mischief and smugness. Of course he knew exactly what she was doing, and she knew this. She also knew that he would poke and prod at her until she admitted the truth.

“I was simply enjoying the garden,” Sif replied cooly. If Loki wanted to play a game then she would be more than a willing participant.

“Is that so…?” Loki casually took a few steps to the side, spinning on his heels a bit and then, as quick as lightning, he jumped behind her and snatched the drawing out of her hand. She spun around and shoved Loki backwards, hoping to catch him off-guard. Instead of losing his balance and falling onto the bench like Sif had hoped he would, Loki just hopped to the side, almost dancing away.

Sif reached out to grab the paper, but Loki jerked his arm away and held it up to his eye-level. "Give it back," she demanded, standing up. If this had happened a decade or so ago, Sif would have been towering over Loki. But he had grown suddenly over the years and he was now at least three inches taller than her, making her feel small and, by default, weaker. She felt her façade of authority waver, but stood her ground and glared up at Loki. "Give. It. Back." Her voice was as hard and cold as steel. And if looks could kill, Loki would have surely be a bleeding mess on the ground.

Loki spared Sif a quick flick of his eyes before settling his sight back on the paper. It took him a second to realize what - who - she had been drawing. The high cheekbones, angular chin, short, black hair that curled just slightly around the ear; it was as if Loki was looking at a mirror. His gaze wandered over the rest of the drawing and finally settled on its eyes: beautiful, wide orbs that were full of curiosity and sadness and loneliness. The irises were the only part of the drawing that were colored in with paint: a dark green color that seemed to swirl with hints of blue.  Loki looked at the way one corner of his lips was turned slightly upward and at how one of his eyebrows was arched ever so slightly making him smirk, full of triumph and mischief. He was seemingly amazed at her drawing. Even she had to admit to herself that she was surprised at how many emotions she could capture in one drawing.

"Is this really what I look like to you?" he asked quietly, handing her back the drawing. His gaze was directed towards the ground, and strands of his black hair fell out of place from being his ears, obscuring his face from view.

She hesitantly took the paper back and answered just as quietly as Loki had asked: "Yes. Your smile says mischief, but your eyes say otherwise. They always look so lonely, as if you do not have a friend in the world."

There was a moment of silence between the pair before Loki's found his voice again. "I never knew you could draw."

(The change of subject did not go unnoticed by Sif.)

"Nobody does," she replied, biting her lower lip. There was quite a bit of things that people didn't know about her. Sif already had so much attention as she continued to work her way to becoming a warrior along with the royal sons and their small band of friends. Her mother had refused to stop crying when she found out that Sif was training to become a warrior, and her father had not been happy about it either. In fact, Sif had been practically disowned the night that she told her parents what she planned to do. But that was in the past and that talent was no longer a secret. The girl wanted no more attention, so she had told no one of her drawing skills. She didn't draw very often anyway, but when she did, she would usually wind up throwing the parchment into the fire to make sure that no one ever found it.

"If your drawing skills come to light it won't cause much commotion, you know," Loki remarked in a matter-of-fact way.

"I like to be precautionary anyway," Sif said wearily. She dropped the paper so that it floated down onto the stone bench, and there was another moment of silence. Blood tried to flood her cheeks, but she forced herself to believe that she could not be embarrassed by the boy in front of her. “And anyway,” she said quickly, trying to move the attention off of her, “I’d like to see you draw a picture half as good as that one.”

Loki grinned. "I might not be very good at drawing with my hands, but I am good at drawing with my words." He paused for a second; thinking of what he could draw a picture in Sif's mind of. When he got an idea, he walked behind her and put his hands over her eyes. Her hands immediately shot up to Loki's wrists to try and pull his hands away from her face but he quickly murmured, "Stop trying to fight me and just relax. There, that's better. Now think about this: there's a beach with golden sands on its shore. The sand is as cool as the rain that falls from the clouds and softer than any fur you have ever touched. Small waves with pearl-white foam edges and azure colored bodies lap up against the shore, pulling tiny pink and orange shells back into the ocean with them. White and silver stallions trample over the sand carrying warriors on their backs. Can you guess where they're going?"

"To Valhalla..." Sif cursed herself for falling into this strange, dreamlike state, but his voice was so wonderful...

There was a story that parents would tell their children at night about graceful stallions taking warriors to the hall of the slain when they died. She swore that she could feel the sand underneath her feet and smell the salt from the ocean. It was as if the world around her was gone and she was in a dreamland that was slowly being built around her. The only thing she was able to focus on was Loki's voice, so smooth and warm and graceful if that was even possible. Loki's voice was like a - what did Frigga call that beautiful sounding instrument that she found on Midgard? A violin. Words flowed out of his mouth as easily as notes did from the small instrument. They were expertly spoken in a tone that rose and fell with emotion as he described the beach more and more, painting a gorgeous picture of Valhalla in Sif's mind that she knew would stay with her forever.

Sif hadn’t even realized that Loki had stopped talking until he pulled his hands away from her eyes. “That was lovely. Why have I never heard you talk like that before?” she asked.

Loki broke eye contact with her and stared at his feet again. If sadness had a body, then it would be Loki because for just a second, Sif saw his smug façade crumble and she was left staring at his tear filled eyes, his lips that were curved into a deep frown, and the shadows that suddenly plagued his face. They had always been there, but only now did they seem to darken and stick out making him look decades older. His brows were furrowed and raised slightly, giving him a look of innocence.

 Sif would never admit it but she found that she enjoyed his expression. It was cruel, she knew, to think that, but he looked like the naïve child that he was supposed to be instead of the cold adult that he usually seemed to be. The moment of vulnerability vanished as soon as it appeared when a spiteful smile crossed Loki’s features. His eyes narrowed to dagger points as he said, “Because you never care to pay attention. You and my older brother are quite thick-headed, you know. I am the outcast of your group; the shadow. Nobody likes magic tricks. Words are no weapons in the eyes of warriors. Nobody pays me any mind. I am nothing.”

The venom and bitterness in Loki’s words stung Sif. She thought back to all of those times when Thor, Loki, Fandral, and she would spar. On the occasion that Loki would win, he was immediately accused of cheating, for in the eyes of the children using magic was not only against the rules, but it was cowardly too. She sighed as she realized that Loki spoke the truth. And it was an all too real truth that gnawed at Sif’s mind and heart until she was aching inside.

Sif tried to swallow her ignorance, but she found that it had swelled her throat so that she could not breathe or speak. When she found her voice, it was strained. “Well I’m paying you mind now.”

Loki shook his head and turned away with a snarl. “Yes, 'now' being the key word. Do not speak a promise you know that you cannot keep.”

Sif reached out her hand and laid it on Loki’s shoulder. “Loki-"

He spun around, eyes ablaze. “Your ignorance towards me is disgusting. Answer me this: If Thor were to come out here right now, would you stay right here? Would you keep speaking to me as if I am your friend?” He suddenly grabbed her wrist and pulled her so that she could feel his chest move with each breath he took. His lips pressed against her ear as he hissed, “The answer is no. No because no one dares call me their friend.”

Loki’s grip was startlingly strong, his hand being so long that his fingers overlapped on her wrist. She wrenched it away from his grasp and rubbed at the already forming bruises. “Monster,” she muttered. Immediately after that, she wished she could take back the word, for she did not really mean it. But it was already said, had already hit home in the heart of its target.

His aggressive behavior was gone as fast as it had come. He looked down at his hands, extending his fingers as if he needed to feel the muscles stretch, hear the bones creak. “Perhaps,” he said quietly and began to pick at the skin on his right hand. It was a nervous habit, Sif knew. He would sometimes do it when he was speaking to his father as if he was nervous that he would say something stupid, if that was even possible.

“Loki, I am sorry that I have been ignorant towards you. But you have my attention now, so would you like to talk or would you like me to leave?”

Loki looked up at Sif. “No, don’t leave. Please. I enjoy your company.” He reached out to hold her wrist again, but she pulled away. His eyes met hers and the previous flames of fury that had occupied them were no longer there. She let him take her wrist again - his grip was gentle this time. His fingertips absentmindedly stroked her forearm, making Sif a little uncomfortable.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, seeming to look everywhere but each other. The birds that occupied the flower bushes chirped energetically as the sun turned the sky a honey-golden color.

Finally, Sif spoke. “You said that you enjoy my company…?”

“Well, yes. I’m afraid that having no friends leaves me quite…lonely. But I have my magic, and that helps a bit.” Loki let go of Sif’s wrist and waved his hand. The air right beside the pair shimmered as if there was a sudden heat wave and another Loki appeared.

Sif’s eyes widened in surprise as she took a step towards the mirage. She reached out to touch its face but her hand ran right through it.

“No touching.”

Sif shook her head. “That’s…amazing. It’s exactly like you. Can it speak?”

“I’m working on that.” Loki frowned. “It shouldn’t take me long to get it to utter a few words.”

They stood there, marveling at the double for a while. It stared back at them with Loki’s wide, green eyes, a peculiar smile spread across its lips.

"And yet, even my magic tricks grow tired of me after a while," Loki said sadly as his holographic double's smile turned into a frown. Its head tilted to the side slightly and tears started to stream down its cheeks. The holograph's tears seemed to be its own destruction, for no more than a minute later was the double slowly melting away until it was blown away by the warm breeze in a flurry of colors. He stared at the place where his double had been for a second before looking at Sif again. “I know that my family grows tired of my magic, too. I fear that they even grow tired of me with every passing day. Sometimes I think the same way. When Thor tells me to leave him alone or when Father ignores me, I don’t say a word. But it’s so different on the inside because I just want out. I don’t want to stay here in Asgard. I don’t want to be near my family. I want to leave and never come back. The worlds I’ve studied that lie outside of Asgard sound so beautiful with their frozen wastelands and roaring rivers and - well, everything about them sounds so much better than here. If I could travel through Yggdrasil with only my thoughts as a companion then and only then do I think that I would actually be happy.”

The sound of footsteps on the stone path stopped Sif before she could say anything. “Sif!” It was Thor. His voice was coming from the archway of vines that marked the beginning of the garden. “Where are you? We’re going down to the village if you want to come.”

Sif looked at Loki whose sudden moment of sentiment had disappeared. In a childish way, she supposed, he had opened up his heart to her, let her see him raw and bleeding, expecting her to sew him back together. But the moment that Thor had called out from the front of the garden was the moment that they both realized that Loki would have to do it himself.

“Go,” he said, looking away from her.

She turned away and took a few steps before stopping and turning back. “Loki if all of what you said was true – all of the about running away – please know that that is not true. Your family loves you. They would be heart-broken if you left.”

For a moment, she though she could see a look flash in Loki's eyes, as if he wanted to say, _And would you be heart-broken, too?_ But instead he just smiled, picked up the drawling that still sat on the bench and faced her. Ignoring her statement he said, “And would you like me to dispose of this?”

“Would you?”

He rubbed the corner of the parchment in between his forefinger and thumb before smirking slightly and saying, “Consider it a…little favor.”

With that, Sif turned and ran off, disappearing behind a bush that had dark blue flowers blooming on it.

                                                                              

* * *

 

When Sif had heard the news that Loki had died, this was the first thought that came to her mind. She had leaned back in her chair and stared at Thor who sat across from her. He had invited her to his rooms to talk, and Sif had more than willingly agreed. It had been many days since she had last talked to Thor and she so missed talking to him. She had focused her eyes on a point far away and thought about the drawing that Loki had taken. Had he kept it or actually gotten rid of it?

“I held him as he died. He was so cold. And I couldn’t save him. I tried, Sif, I tried so hard to protect him,” Thor had said, his voice shaking. “He died with honor.”

 _Died with honor_. That was the only part that mattered to her.


	2. Chapter 2

Perhaps if Sif had not been careless in her run-in with a scout group of dwarves on Nidavellir, then she would not have found out that the second prince of Asgard was not dead _._

Maybe if she had been concentrating more on the dwarf behind her rather than the one in front of her would she have not gotten a dagger in her side.

If she had not had that nightmare about Thor being strangled to death then she most likely wouldn't have wandered down into the armory to distract herself with a sword.

But all that did happen and now Sif was here, standing in her bare feet on the cold stone floor of the armory with a sword in her hand, wondering how she had even gotten down here in the first place.

She only remembers fragments of the events that led up to her getting to the armory: healing stones and too-bright golden lights as Eir healed the hole in the warrior’s side; waking up screaming from a nightmare too real to say aloud; the soft light of candles as she walked through the hallways of the palace, seemingly having forgotten her shoes; and finally the wooden door that led to the armory, standing tall and unguarded before her. Sif had immediately gone to find her sword that had been thrown carelessly on one of the wooden tables that sat in the front of the room. It was covered in dried blood; an ugly red staining the shining silver, and Sif had promptly cleaned it until it was replaced to all of its former glory.

The armory is dark and deserted, so maybe that’s why Sif flinches when she hears a clang echo throughout the room. She hesitantly picks up her sword from where it is sitting alone on a wooden stand. Without making a sound, she curiously slinks through the maze of armor and metal, trying to find out who – or what, she thinks grimly – made that sound. Breathing is out of the question when a whimper sounds from the corner to Sif’s right. Her grip on the hilt of her sword tightens as she tenses, preparing herself for an attack. She lets one second pass, then another, and then-

When Sif reveals herself from her hiding place, she expects to find a child or perhaps a wounded animal, for only those two things are capable of making that sound (the short whimper that is filled with so much pain and sadness that it makes her heart ache). But instead, she finds the person that she least expects in front of her. She could recognize the black hair that curls around the collar of the black and green leather from anywhere; the too-long legs and arms; the unhealthily skinny torso that is curled into fetal position: it is Loki.

Insane, intelligent, mischievous, _dead,_ Loki.

It takes a few seconds for Sif to process what she is seeing. She tries to breath but her lungs refuse to inflate.

(For the last time she had seen Loki, she had threatened to kill him.

And when she had heard of his death, she was silent because even the horrible Trickster who betrayed Thor and all of Asgard did not deserve to die so suddenly, so early-)

Loki’s sudden gasp of air brings Sif back to reality, and she throws down her sword, dropping to her knees beside the prince. Her hands hover over his body, not exactly sure what to do. Before she can do anything, though, Loki stirs and suddenly sits up. It takes him a second to focus on the room around him, on her, and she can see his eyes widen in surprise as he realizes where he is and who is in front of him.  But she also sees how his fingers brush over his chest and ribs as if trying to feel his heart and lungs; the parts of his body that keep him alive.

_(There was a story she had heard once-)_

Loki clenches his jaw and says, “Why are you here?”

“I might ask the same of you,” replies Sif quietly.

Before either of them can say anything else, though, Loki suddenly tenses and Sif can see his pupils are blown wide even in the dark lighting. He hugs his knees to his chest and rests his forehead there. The only sound in the armory is his labored breathing; short, shaky gasps of air that are forced in and out of his lungs. When a sudden scream rips itself from his throat, Sif decides to take matters into her own hands. She grabs one of his arms, throws it over her shoulder, and lifts him to his feet. His head hangs limp, and his eyes are fixed on the floor. He lets out a half-hearted groan of irritation, but Sif just ignores him. "I don't care if I have to drag you, Loki," she growls, "but you're coming with me."

                                                                                                

* * *

 

 

Loki had grown accustomed to a good amount of things during his rule as the King of Asgard, many of which were quite pleasant. For one thing, he could roam around the palace whenever he wanted to, looking like whomever he wanted to. He found rooms which he didn't even know existed, and he would spend hours upon hours just wandering the hallways, opening doorways concealed in the shadows. It surprised Loki to think that he had grown up here, in this palace full of secrets.

When he was not wandering the halls, Loki was sitting on the throne discussing battle strategies, peace treaties, and a great deal more regarding the Nine Realms. He did all of this, of course, disguised as Odin, for all of Asgard still thought him dead and none knew that the All-Father had once again fallen into Odin-sleep. Loki would often hear the servants whispering about how much better the Nine Realms were doing; about how different the All-Father was acting. "He has seemed to have gained much more charisma," they would say when they thought that Odin – Loki – was out of earshot. Of course he had made sure to balance out his charisma with a firm and humble (or cruel, as he fancied it to be) act, too, because he could not risk changing the King's character entirely.

But along with the good things that came with ruling there was always the bad things and more often than not, the bad things would out-way the good ones. Ruling was extremely stressful and Loki found himself growing more and more weary with each passing day. His constant use of magic for his disguise drained his energy until at the end of each day he was exhausted even if he had only spoken to one or two people.

The fits had started shortly after he had begun ruling. At first they were short: a brief flashback of something from his childhood or of a battle during his more recent years. But as time passed the fits slowly grew longer and more realistic.

Loki had not been able to sleep one night and was sitting on the throne, letting his mind wander when he had gotten a sudden pain in his chest. He had stiffened, thinking that the pain was just a breath that he had taken too sharply, but then another pain hit him, this time in his back. He suddenly felt as if his lungs were on fire, and he clawed at his armor, letting his façade of the All-Father drop. When he had ripped through his tunic, he was met with the site of a gaping hole in his chest: the hole where Kurse had driven the spear through him, all those weeks ago.

(And when that had happened, Loki had gasped and his heart screamed in protest as it was ripped apart.)

The veins that ran to his heart from the wound carried blood that was black instead of red, causing disturbingly beautiful patterns to stick out on his skin like dark thread on a white dress. Flesh as grey as storm clouds surrounded the hole, too tender and delicate to touch. But Loki dared to touch it and had to bite back a cry when some of the black blood smeared across his fingertips, for it burned like acid and fire.

He had blinked and was no longer sitting on the throne, but was lying in Thor's arms. His breathing was rapid and his mouth was parted as he struggled to gather air into his lungs.

"You fool…you didn’t listen," Thor was saying in a voice filled with so much pain and anger and sadness that Loki couldn't help but agree with him.

"I know...I'm a fool...I'm a fool." Loki gasped as a sudden gust of wind blew sand that stung his skin. He shook, but he could no longer tell if he was shaking because of the cold or because of the poison that was slowly making its way to his brain. You can heal yourself, you can heal yourself, Loki thought. You checked the poison on the blade, it was safe, it was safe, _it was safe_.

But he continued to shake as fear ate away at his courage. What if his magic failed him when he needed it the most and left him to die?

"Stay with me, okay?”

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”   `

“Shh…Loki…I’ll tell Father what you did here today," Thor said as he pulled Loki to his chest letting the god's head rest in his big hands. The God of Thunder's voice shook as well as his body - from fear or the cold Loki could not tell - and large tears fell from his eyes.

Thor. Perfect, arrogant, naïve, warm-hearted Thor. He foolishly wore his heart on his sleeve and it caused him a great deal of pain sitting there.

As Loki gazed into his eyes then, he could see that they screamed at Loki to not die, to stay holding onto his hand for forever if that was what it took for Loki to stay alive.

( _It’s ok, Loki, don’t be scared. Here. Hold my hand. I’m here, I’m here. Don’t cry-_ )

Loki shivered. But was it because he was scared or was it because he was so damn cold-

"I didn't do it for him," he said quietly, almost thoughtfully.

(If he did not do it for Odin then who had he done it for? Loki found that he could not even answer this question himself.)

He let his eyes close and heard Thor's anguished cry as he was pulled into darkness. Then there was nothing. Nothing but black and the soft hum of magic as it worked furiously to heal his wounds and keep the poison from entering his heart and brain.

Loki had snapped back to reality with a strangled cry only to find himself lying on the marble steps that led up to the throne. Hot tears were falling down his cheeks and his knuckles were white because he was gripping the sharp edge of the last step so hard. After a few seconds of silence, Loki quickly gathered himself back together and climbed back into the throne. He would not attempt to sleep for the rest of the night.

He found that the best way to handle these fits was to breathe deeply and hold himself. When he did that, he was able to feel his heart beat and his lungs inflate, reassuring him that he was still alive and okay and if he just stayed calm for a little while longer, then everything would be fine and there would be no more pain, no more fear.

But pain was pain and he was never able to escape it.

 

*

 

The god had been bored sitting on the throne earlier that day, for he had been sitting there for hours and hours doing nothing but talking to peasants and ignorant lords about petty matters. He had been itching to move around, and the hole in his chest had been throbbing with a dull ache, reminding him that he had to be cautious with his movements or else he might cause another fit to fall upon him.

To try and distract himself from these thoughts, Loki had decided to take a walk. He had no certain destination, so he just let his feet take him everywhere. The air was hot and dry outside, a characteristic that Asgard possessed. It was, after all, the realm that seemed to be made out of pure gold, so it only seemed fit that the weather there was always warm and sunny during the summer or dark and snowy during the winter. Either way, the realm was deceptively perfect in every way.

After wandering aimlessly through the village that sat below the palace, the flower-filled garden where he had looked towards the sky, let his disguise as Odin drop and talked to Frigga who no doubt sat on a throne of clouds in Valhalla, and finally through the deserted corridors of the palace, Loki finds himself in the armory. The lighting is dim and the room is silent, filled only by the sound of his breathing.

He walks through the rows of swords and shields that are set on large wooden stands, some freshly polished and glinting and others still stained with blood and dirt. When he finds the table where he used to keep his knives, he sighs with relief. After his supposed death on Svartlfaheim, he was certain that Thor had gotten rid of his daggers or worse, given them to some other warrior for use. But here they are, clean, shining, and sharpened as if someone has just finished using them. No, Thor would never let anybody else touch them.

Loki reaches out to the hilt of one of the daggers and wraps his longs fingers around it. Its familiar weight in his hand feels so much better than the almost awkward feeling he always has when he's holding Gungnir. He spins around and flings the dagger at a wooden post on the other side of the room. It flies and buries itself into the richly colored wood, and Loki can't help but smirk. He has still kept his knife-throwing skills even after not having touched one of his favored weapons in forever.

When he picks up another one on the daggers on the table, he realizes that his hand is shaking. He is suddenly aware of his rapid heartbeat, the roaring of blood in his ears. “Not again,” he mutters. His knees buckle, and he falls onto the cold stone floor. Thinking of only one thing to do, he wraps his arms around his legs, hugging himself tightly as he tries to fend off whatever violent memory that will replay in his mind. It doesn’t work.

The torchlight that illuminates the armory is replaced by eerie blue lights that seem to be planted into the dusty surface of the barren moon that is suddenly under his feet. The space that surrounds the moon is like a canvas that was painted black with only one yellow dot – one single star – to banish the darkness.

Loki’s face is pressed into the dust of the moon, and he is left staring at the grotesque feet of _them_ – the monsters that had kept him, had tortured him for so long. He thought that he had ridden himself of them when he had been thrown into a prison cell in Asgard, but the Chitauri seem to torture him still, plaguing his nightmares. There is puncture wound in his lungs, his heart, and the hole - that damned hole - in his chest. With each beat of his heart, a wave of fresh blood pours from his wounds and makes the dust under him turn red and causes it to clump together.

Chains that stick out of the ground hold onto his wrists, disabling him from getting up. Loki moves his arm in a fruitless attempt to pull at the leaden chains, but his forearm is promptly stepped on and with a sickening _crack_ , the bone snaps in half. He yelps in pain despite his best efforts at keeping quiet. The group of Chitauri guards who surround him grace him with their raspy laughter.

“The Silvertongue has found his voice,” one spits. It grabs Loki’s long and tangled hair and yanks his head back. Their prisoner lets out a hiss of pain, and the monster pulls Loki’s mouth open. It dumps some foul tasting liquid into Loki’s mouth and forces his to swallow it. The poison burns his throat as if he has just drunk acid, and he has the feeling of a fire in his stomach. He writhes on the ground.

“Please...stop,” he gasps.

“'Please, stop!'” the guards mock. “Asgard’s second prince is begging.”  They make it a point to say that he is Asgard’s _second_ prince. Always second.

There is a noise that sounds like the slapping of boots against stone, and it shatters Loki’s eardrums. It changes into the echoing sound of a whip hitting flesh and hot pain bursts across his back. The smell of blood is heavy in the air. “Stop,” he groans. “Please, please just _stop_.”

He feels the cool movement of air above his forearms and is pulled violently back into reality. He sits bolt right up and blinks, eyes trying to adjust to the sudden darkness. The ground underneath him is not made of dust, but of stone. There are no chains around his wrists, no whips being brought down against his back. His hand immediately flies up to the middle of his chest, to the hole that sits there, to his heart and lungs. He is alive. Loki relaxes a bit before he realizes who is sitting in front of him. He hasn’t seen her since he left for Svartlfaheim with Thor. Concern is plastered across her face in the form of a frown and hard eyes.

 _Damn_ , he thinks. Instead he says with a clenched jaw, “Why are you here?”

“I might ask the same of you,” she replies quietly.

He opens his mouth to say something but the after effects of the fit roll over him and his muscles spasm. His knees immediately press against his chest, and he wraps his arms around his shins. He shuts his eyes tight; his breathing is too fast and the world is spinning and he is suffocating and gasping and the silence hurts his eardrums. He bites into the leather on his arm and screams because he thinks it will help his decaying lungs or the hole in his chest that _burns_ so badly.

Loki feels Sif detach one of his arms from around his knees and throw it over her shoulder. He gives a half-hearted groan of protest as she pulls him to his feet. His head hangs limply on his neck and his eyes are half shut.

"I don't care if I have to drag you, Loki," she growls, "but you're coming with me." With that, he is dragged out of the armory and into the hallway. He doesn't know where she’s taking him, but what he does know is that he passes out before they get there.

                                                                                            

* * *

 

Sif doesn't know when Loki fell unconscious; she happens to realize it when she goes it open the door to his bedroom. The palace is deserted so no guards are anywhere near the room. But, then again, nobody is ever near Loki’s old bedroom. As she extends her arm to push open the heavy golden doors, she feels him slump against her side.  Ignoring the sharp press of his armor against her ribs, she shoves the door open and drags him to a seat right in front of the hearth. After making sure that he is seated and won’t fall out of the chair, she walks back to the door, shuts and locks it, strides to hearth and quickly starts a fire. At first there is nothing but a small spark that shows in the pile of wood but it soon turns into a roaring inferno of heat.

With the fire taken care of, Sif picks her way around the room, looking for a bowl and cloth. When she finds the supplies, she goes to the bathroom where a pool of water sits, sunk into the middle of the floor. She knows that Loki uses it for his potions - knows that he wouldn't want her touching it. She doesn't care.

Loki is awake when Sif comes back out to the sitting room. She kneels down in front of him, dunks the cloth into the cool water, and wrings it out so that it is damp. Loki jerks his head back when she tries to press the cloth against it. She glares at him and says, “Hold still.”

There are a thousand questions racing around in her head. Sif wants to wrap Loki in her arms and just feel him breath so that she knows that he is really alive because she _missed_ him, and she can’t wait to tell Thor about this miracle.

 _Thor_.

She suddenly has the urge to strangle Loki. He broke Thor so badly like a careless child and a toy. She can still remember the heart-wrenching sobs that made her friend shake like a dying animal. He had been so distraught because he blamed himself for Loki’s death.

( _I couldn’t even bring his body back. I had to leave my little brother all alone on that barren planet. He’s probably still there, rotting away and it’s entirely my fault. He was so cold, and I couldn’t even keep him warm.)_

Sif looks at Loki’s ashen face. Strands of black hair fall in front of his empty-looking eyes, a memory too opaque to really remember coming back to her. He looks worn and lifeless, as if he is a walking corpse.

“I expect that you have questions, but I am in no mood to answer them.”

Loki suddenly speaking makes Sif jump a little. He gives her a pointed look and rubs his jaw with a skeletal hand.

“I think I deserve an explanation of why I found you almost dead in the armory in the dead of night," she replies flatly.

Loki swallows with an almost nervous look in his eyes. He looks as if he is weighing the damage that will happen if he tells her about him faking his death, about all the other secrets he's kept. He makes up his mind that he doesn’t care.

She listens with sharp ears to his description of the last few years of his life. From the time when he was hanging from the Bifrost to when he had wandered down into the armory with the hole in his chest that was – is – simultaneously healing and killing him, he spills the story that nobody has ever heard before now.

When he finishes his story and licks his cracked and dry lips, Sif stops dabbing his forehead with the cloth and puts it into the bowl on the floor. She taps her fingers on her knee as she thinks about Loki’s story.

His sudden laughter brings her back to reality. (She used to punch him in the shoulder when they were younger and he would pull her from her thoughts, the damn boy.) “I do suppose that I just broke my last statement about not answering any of your questions.”

She just looks at him, still milling over what he said about the Tesseract and the events that occurred on Svartalfheim.

( _Died with honor.)_

There are so many things she wants to say to him. The only word that she can put all of her anger and sadness in is: “Coward.”

He abandoned his family - abandoned Thor and Frigga and  _her_. Although it was never official, although they never actually said the words to each other, she felt _something_ akin to love, she dare admit, and now, as she stares at the creature before her, a mask of rage covering the fact that he is falling to pieces, she is aware that those feelings have awakened again. And that is why she is so angry at him. Because he hated himself enough to leave those closest to him in the dust. Because he tried to kill himself.

She half expects Loki to sneer, to hiss some menacing remark, but he only lets out another bark of laughter.

“I am anything but." He pauses, his mask hardening. "Amuse me and explain your reasoning behind such a”-there's that awful sneer-"truthful statement."

Her heart stutters in her chest. She will lie her way through this. "You tried to leave your family. You tried to rid them of you when there was no reason to. Your mother would have broken if she lost you. Thor would have gone silent with you gone. I"-no, she was not to bring herself into this-"You-you-" She falters, her voice weakening as the fire in her veins diminishes. "You attempted to kill yourself, Loki. Does your life matter so little to you?"

Loki’s throat moves as he swallows.

“Does Death great you as an old friend by now?”The look that he gives her makes her immediately regret asking the question. She tries to back pedal, desperately searching her mind for something else to say. She should know better than to let her emotions mix with her words, especially around Loki.

He laughs  _again_.

(Insanity is only an illusion, someone once told her.)

This time it turns her blood to ice, along with the fact that his eyes darken dangerously.

Using the shadows to distort reality, she suddenly feels his presence behind her, his mouth hovering close to her ear so that when he hisses it sends shivers down her spine. “Do not speak to me of Death. You have not the faintest idea what she is like.”

He moves so that he is standing in front of her, a malicious - _fake_ , she tries to remind herself - smile displayed on his lips. He locks eyes with hers, and his voice drops in volume considerably. It is this quietness that terrifies Sif because it is the times that Loki is quiet that he does the most damage.

“I have been a slave to her lover who forced me to be at the mercy of her more times than I can count. At the end of every day, I was brought into her presence; her touch on my skin will stay with me forever. It burned and froze and hurt and felt so _good_." Tears form in his eyes, his breathing unsteady as he continues.

"But it was her skeletal hand that I craved to hold at the end of every day, for I _begged_ like a _child_ for him to let me go - let her take me wherever she pleased because anywhere was better than where I was. There was not an hour that passed that I was not ripped apart -  _dissected_ like an _animal -_ until I was gasping on the ground. Words cannot describe the agony I felt when I took a breath because my lungs were crushed and my heart was torn to shreds. And they would make me swallow the blood so that I could know that I was still just barely alive. When Death would hold out her hand to me, I would crawl to her and grasp it with no more strength than a dying man, but _he_ would pull me away from her and start the process all over again.

"Do not tell me that you have screamed for mercy so much that your throat bled and your voice was no more. Do not tell me that you have seen Death in all of her glory and have not been afraid. Do not tell me that you know what dying feels like because _you do not._ ”

Sif lets her eyes drop from his, unable stand to look into the green fires of sadness and rage and pain and not feel like an ignorant child. She thought she knew him better than his brother. She does not. The possibility that he had not willingly teamed up with the Chitauri and their leader after he had fallen off of the Bifrost through the wormhole had never even crossed her mind.

 (The second Prince, the All-Father had said to Asgard, has fallen.)

Her gaze slowly climbs its way back up his body; over his long legs; his shaking, green-tunic covered chest and abdomen; and finally back to his face. He is sickly pale, grey in a way as if the life has been sucked out of him. Dark circles give the illusion that his eyes are sinking into his head, and his high cheekbones cast shadows down his face, making him look skinny, so, _so_ , skinny.

( _-with no more strength than a dying man-_ )

Perhaps that is exactly what Loki is: a dying man. Perhaps he has been slowly decaying on the inside since Thor was set to be crowned King of Asgard.  Perhaps all that he did was only because he wanted to be loved.

A sad smile appears on her lips. "And yet even in the end, people of all races are filled with ignorance that could either save them or condemn them." It is the closest thing to a confession of fault as she will give.

Loki nods wearily as if his sudden outburst has tired him. He walks over to the bed and sits down at the corner of it pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I thank you for being concerned about my welfare, lady, but I am in no more need of your assistance," he says, pulling his hands away from his face and crawling to the head of the bed. There is something else he wants to say, something rude, but he is too tired to say it.

( _Not that I ever needed your assistance in the first place.)_

The fur covers block his body from Sif's view, seeing as he pulls them all of the way up to his chin. "You may stay if you wish," he ends the conversation dismissively.

Sif stands at the foot of the bed and just watches him for a few minutes. Watches him breath. Watches how the slight rise and fall of his shoulder as his breathing is labored, each inhale an obvious struggle. He didn't even threaten her to not tell anyone of her discovery. He didn't even lock the door.

Any thoughts of leaving are dismissed when she hesitantly climbs onto the bottom of the bed. Loki does not stir, and she takes this as he has fallen into a light sleep. She, too, crawls into the empty side of the bed on the other side of him and pulls the furs up to her chin.

( _Do not tell me you know what dying feels like-_ )

Staring at Loki's back is better than staring at his face because if she could see his face, she knows that she might mistake him for being a corpse. At least when she is staring at his back, she does not need to worry about seeing his ashen skin or watching his face contort with nightmares. Watching his fingers skim over the mattress, trying to find reassurance that he is not alone.

( _-because you do not._ )

You are not alone, Sif thinks. Not tonight.

She wants to reach out and touch him. She wants to let him know that she is here and he is safe and he is loved in strange, complicated ways; that he always will be. But she doesn't.

Instead she lets her eyes close, lets her grip slacken on the hilt of the dagger that she always sleeps with, and welcomes sleep.

 

 *

 

_The air is heavy with the sweet smell of rain, and the sound of it hitting the leaves on the tree is hypnotizing. A light breeze blows over the grass making it shudder slightly. Dark clouds roll over the sky, threatening thunder and lightning._

_Sif is not in the mood for either. Rarely is there a rainstorm in Asgard that doesn't involve them (she teases Thor for that), so it’s nice to have a few minutes of just rain._

_She is sitting on a hill that is as tall as the trees. She can see the palace and the village that sits far below it from here. The raindrops land on her skin, rolling down her forehead and onto her knees, sinking into the dark fabric there. They cool her off even though she is not particularly hot._

_The raindrop covered grass is soft when she leans back against it and folds her hands over her stomach. She closes her eyes and lets out a sigh as she lets the breeze dance across her forehead, jaw, shoulder . . ._

Sif awakens with a start, immediately sitting bolt right up with her dagger clutched in her hand. It takes her a few seconds to recognize her surroundings, and when she comprehends where she is, she relaxes. The fire in the hearth blazes, but the room is still filled with an unmistakable chill. Whether it is the chill of winter or of tension, she does not know.

She throws her dagger at her feet and it lands with a soft _thud_ against first layer of fur spread out across the bed. A slight dip of the feather-filled mattress makes her turn her head to the left only to set her eyes on a strange sight: Loki sitting on his haunches, poised on the edge of the bed. The fingertips of his one hand are splayed out on the fur to keep his balance while the other hand is held tightly against his chest in a fist. His position reminds her of a cat who was caught in the act of trying to catch a bird.

Something about the way he is looking at her, the way he is positioned, makes a thought click into place in her head. "Were you . . .  _touching_ me?" she asks, trying to mask her curiosity with vexation.

Loki relaxes his balled hand and stretches his fingers before saying, "I was merely . . . I suppose I- yes." His statement ends abruptly, leaving the air heavy with unsaid lies. It is rare that Loki states the truth so frankly; his sudden act of honesty catches Sif off guard. He sees her expression waver, sees through her façade of irritation, and can't help but let his lips twist into a mocking smile. It melts off of his face, however, when he realizes that she wants an explanation of why he had dared to let his hand skim over her skin. He presses his lips together, trying to come up with a smart remark, a lie. But his eyes reflect his mind - chaotic and startled - and he cannot think of one.

Sif watches him go through this strange progression of speechlessness and resists the urge to smile at the bitter-sweet thought that even the one who they call Silvertongue can be at a loss for words.

An warm tremor goes through her spine when the revelation that Loki had been actually touching her hits home in her brain. The breeze in her dream had not been a breeze at all but merely his cool fingers skimming across what small amount of skin that was exposed on her. She can't help but let her own fingers glide over her forearm, and she pulls absentmindedly at the loose threads at the end of the sleeve of her tunic. Her pulse races furiously in her arm, making her clench her jaw angrily. She holds back the urge to scoff at her own desperation for a man's touch. The last time she had been touched by a man was so long ago. It had been a comforting touch. Stupid. Sentimental.

 _(It's ok, Sif,_ Thor said as he wrapped his arms around Sif's shaking shoulders. _Your father is in Valhalla, feasting with the mighty warriors of old. Shh, Shh, don't cry, don't cry...)_

(But this man is different. Her best friend, her guide in life - she almost lost him.)

"I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you in any way." Loki's quiet apology snaps Sif back to reality and she tilts her head, eager to hear what the Silvertongue has to say next. “It’s just... I have not felt another's touch in so long. I was denied permission to see my mother when I returned to Asgard, and even when she would visit me in my cell she was no more than an illusion. The last time I saw her- I said awful things. And when I tried to hold her hand she...disappeared. I vowed that the next time I saw her I would apologize, I would tell her how much I loved her but then she-" Loki cannot even finish his sentence, but he doesn't need to. _But then she died._

His gaze is fixed on a point far away, his mind in a world that only he knows exists. Sif studies Loki's blank expression. She thinks about how she would recently catch Odin do the same thing when he thought nobody was looking. She had mistaken his deep stares for weariness from old age. What a fool she has been. As she looks upon Loki now, she thinks that maybe when he stares it is because he has lost his balance on his poorly constructed bridge of sanity and is falling down into the deep dark abyss that is his insanity. Or perhaps he is just crazy all of the time.

A wave of pity suddenly overcomes Sif, and before she knows what she is doing, she has her arms wrapped around Loki's shoulders. The hug is awkward because of the strange angle that Loki is sitting at. Sif can feel Loki tense at the sudden show of affection, and even though her mind protests to the strange action that she has taken, she squeezes her arms tighter.

She is surprised when she finds herself suddenly enveloped by Loki's long arms. He seems to have collapsed onto his knees and has his head buried in the nape of her neck. His body shakes like a dying leaf being thrown around in the breeze. Sif knows he is trying to hold back tears and rubs soothing circles on his back. She says nothing because she is afraid that if she did then the perfect silence around them would crack and fall apart, cutting Loki's heart in the process and damaging it forever. So she decides to sit here on the fur covered bed in front of the dancing flames of fire in silence, continuously drawing patterns on Loki's back in an attempt to sooth him.

_(There was a story she had heard once-)_

The eerie chill in the air is gone, replaced by something warm and sweet-smelling.

_(-of a bird whose companion had been struck by an arrow.)_

Loki's body stops shaking and he lets out a breath of hot air accompanied by a few gasps and Sif knows that he is crying.

_(And the bird sat with its dying friend and cried out to the heavens.)_

She pulls Loki away from her shoulder so that he is looking her in the eyes. He quickly wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and presses his lips together in a hard line. He tries to pull out of Sif's grasp but she only tightens her grip. "Why must you insist on being so cold? Stop turning a blind eye on the ones who love you, Loki. It is not what Frigga would have wanted you to do."

Loki's composure shatters and his hands fly up to her face. For a while he just holds her there, tears falling off of his cheekbones and onto his trouser-clad knees, completely missing his hollow cheeks that seem to have been swallowed up by the rest of his face. He stares at Sif, green eyes wide with sadness and guilt. _Guilt._

"Loki, you fool," Sif says, quietly. "You fool, you fool. It was not your fault. It was not your fault."

"I'm a fool," Loki says, slightly breathless as a sense of remembrance overcomes him. "I'm a fool."

_(Even when the bird realized that its companion was dead, it still sat with the body as if that would bring comfort to the dead animal.)_

Sif eases Loki back so that he is lying on the bed and hesitantly rests her head on his chest, right above where his heart is. He flinches as a slight pang of pain runs through his chest but relaxes when it goes away. They both lay awake for a while just listening to the comforting sound of the other's breathing and the crackling of the fire.

The air is warm when they both finally fall asleep, not as lovers but as friends seeking the comfort of each other. The worries of their world can wait until when the sun rises, for now is a time of utter bliss.

(And as Sif drifts off to sleep, she thinks that maybe she and Loki are not all that different from the birds in the story. Perhaps they too are just trying to provide each other some sort of consolation as each of them dies in ways that seem so different but are really exactly alike.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first semi-multi-chapter fic so it took me a while to set it up and write it. The Thor movies were totally hinting at something that happened between Loki and Sif in their past, and I jumped at the idea that it took place in their childhood since Thor and them were friends since such a young age. Thank You to all of you stumbled upon this and took the time to read it. :)


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